


Getting Back to Normal

by country13



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Best Friends, Blood and Violence, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Cowboy Hats, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Falling In Love, Friendship, Fucking, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Horseback Riding, Horses, Love at First Sight, M/M, Male Friendship, Oral Sex, Rodeo Competitions, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/country13/pseuds/country13
Summary: Mickey Milkovich is a professional bull rider on the PBR circuit well on his way to becoming the youngest world championship bull rider in history. What happens when he meets Ian Gallagher, a new bullfighter on the PBR circuit?





	1. Bad To The Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this is my second attempt at a multi-chapter AU. This is a little something different that may not be for everyone. I love rodeos, cowboys, western culture, and everything pertaining to the genre, so I thought it would be fun to put our boys in that world. 
> 
> I will update the tags as the story progresses. 
> 
> Rodeo and/or bull riding terms will be explained in the end notes.

With the brim of his Stetson hat hung low on his head, Mickey Milkovich leaned against the railing, one cowboy boot clad foot crossed over the other.  With one thumb hooked into the pocket of his well-worn Wrangler jeans, the other hand was holding steady to a Marlboro Red, rolling it between his fingers and bringing it to his lips every few seconds to take a long drag and blow the plume of smoke upward until it curled around the lights of the arena and disappeared. 

He didn’t notice the roar of the crowd that rumbled throughout the arena, or hear the raucous music that blared through the huge speakers overhead.  He didn’t notice the brightness of the lights that were beaming down on everything they touched or the strobe lights that were sweeping over the whole arena in quick succession. He didn’t notice the pyrotechnics that were shooting through the air at breakneck speed and velocity.  He didn’t hear the announcer working the crowd into an even higher state of frenzy.  No, he didn’t see or hear any of that. 

Mickey was laser focused on one thing and one thing only:  Outlaw.  The two thousand pound bull he was about to mount. He watched with steely determination as Outlaw slowly made his way down the bull chute, catching the animal’s eye at one point and staring him down with narrowed eyes like they were two men at battle in a gunfight.  They may not have been preparing to shoot each other to the death, but they were at battle.  They were enemies. Man against beast.

 Outlaw was a rank bull, using his strong bucks and kicks to knock off any rider that dared to ride him.  That’s exactly the reason why Mickey wanted him.  Some of the other bull riders were too timid to ride the most rank bulls, instead going for the easy rides and settling for mediocre points scores.  But Mickey believed that there wasn’t a bull that he couldn’t ride and all the ones that other riders were too afraid of, those were the ones he wanted.  Because he knew that, yeah, a rider could get a good ride with a docile bull and make things easier for himself, but no one would ever remember his name.   

 As Mickey continued to watch Outlaw, his huge head swinging from side to side as his muscled, powerful body moved slowly but steadily, his anticipation bloomed to full blown excitement.  Nobody else in the place existed for Mickey in that moment.  Not the other bull riders walking around him behind the chutes, not the 20,000 people outside those chutes in Madison Square Garden.

 Other than the actual ride, this was Mickey’s favorite time.  The calm before the storm.  He didn’t plan anything because he knew that if he set a game plan and tried to trap the bull, he would get ensnared in that trap himself, every time.  He relied solely on his instincts, on what came naturally to him.  The bull’s goal was to buck the bull rider off of him, the bull rider’s was to stay on, for at least eight seconds, and not get stomped on in the process. As simple as it sounded, it was anything but.

 But no matter how difficult or dangerous it was, Mickey loved it.  God, did he fucking love it.  The adrenaline rush of it, the excitement. Ever since he slid down to mount his first bull at fourteen, he was hooked.  There was nothing in the world like it and nothing else that Mickey was this good at.  He wasn’t good at many things, but dammit he was good at this.  It was second nature to him by now. He needed that thrill like he needed air to breathe.

Mickey had a quiet confidence, a swagger that he exuded, like he knew he was good at what he did, but he didn’t boast about it.  He wasn’t cocky.  He let his rides and his scores speak for themselves.

Mickey slipped on his riding glove, the worn leather smooth against his calloused skin. The chute boss came by carrying his trusty clipboard in one hand, and a pencil in the other. “You’re next, Mickey,” the stocky old man bellowed, breaking him out of his concentration.  

“Thanks, Mack.” Mickey slapped him on the back and then began taping up his hands. After he was finished, he slipped on his riding vest, taking in the numerous logos emblazoned on it along with his riding shirt, rolling his eyes as he did. So much shit Mickey had to deal with because of those fucking logos, when all he wanted to do was ride bulls. But this was not the time to think about that shit. 

With his riding glove secured and his vest on over his starched and pressed button-down shirt, Mickey slapped his chap-covered legs and made his way over to the chute.  His flank man, Randy, held out a gray helmet to him.  Mickey glanced at the helmet with furrowed brows while throwing his cigarette down and stomping it out with his boot.

“What the fuck is that?” Mickey asked, even though they both knew he knew the answer.  This was Mickey’s third year in the PBR, and they went through this every year at the beginning of the season. He had never worn the helmet during a ride and he wasn’t about to start now.

Randy sighed in a manner that said he knew how this conversation was going to go.  “It’s the standard issue  _required_ , helmet, Mickey.”

 Mickey grunted, annoyed. “You see this hat, Randy?” Mickey asked, pointing it out with his finger before putting both hands on his hips, encircling his leather belt.

“Yeah, Mick, I see it,” Randy responded, rolling his eyes.

Mickey didn’t believe in many things, but one thing he did believe in was that a cowboy didn’t take his hat off for very much. But especially not his ride. The cowboy hat was sacred, it was an extension of the man, a symbol of respect and tradition. 

“This is the only damn thing that will be on my head when I bust out of that chute and cover this ride. So you can take that _required_ helmet in your hand there and shove it up your ass!”

 Mickey didn’t know what Randy did with the helmet, but by the time he put his boot up on one of the rungs of the gate and hoisted himself up, it was gone. Mickey hopped over the railing of the chute where his enemy, Outlaw, awaited. He carefully lowered himself onto the bull, his cheeks suddenly flushed and his heart hammering in his chest.

He had both of his boots facing forward, so that he wouldn’t hit the bull with his spurs.  That was a sure way to break an ankle once the bull started moving around wildly from the unwanted contact. Mickey had seen it happen before.

Mickey bent his short, stocky legs at the knee and grasped onto the bull’s sides with his strong thighs.  At 5’7”, 130 pounds of hard muscle that could have only been earned from back breaking farm work, Mickey had a body that was made for bull riding.

Mickey did take the mouth guard his flank man gave him, to the man’s obvious relief. He rosined up his rope, then his rope guy pulled his rope tight, and as he did, Outlaw let out a loud snort and started wiggling around, knocking Mickey’s leg into the chute gate in the process.  His spotter was there in an instant making sure he was okay.  He gripped onto Mickey’s protective vest for extra protection.

Once Outlaw stopped his moving around, Mickey warmed his hand lead rope up with his gloved hand. Once his hand was gripped around the rope, he threw the tail of his rope behind him instead of in front of him, that way the bull wouldn’t start thrashing his head and those sharp ass horns around, as he was known to do. He slid up into position and grabbed the railing of the chute with his free hand.

He slapped his thigh, then slapped the side of his face, his pre-ride good luck ritual. He gave his nod that he was ready and yelled out the call the guys had heard from him for the past three years. “Let’s fucking go, boys!”

As his theme song, “Bad to the Bone” began to play and the crowd went crazy, the chute was opened and Mickey and Outlaw exploded into the arena.

This was it.  This was the moment Mickey lived and breathed for, the moment that made his blood thrum with excitement.  The best, most exhilarating, eight seconds he ever experienced, even though a lot of times it felt liked the longest damn eight seconds of his life.  Mickey didn’t care.  All the other bullshit he had to deal with-agents, sponsors, interviews, contracts, and the like-all that shit faded away until it was just him and the bull.  Fighting for dominance, battling for control.              

The jet black twisting, bucking mass of muscle Mickey was currently riding on was a fierce opponent.  With his free arm up high in the air, Mickey dug his spurs into the bull’s sides and focused on his head to gauge what he would do next. Outlaw darted to the left, then to the right, then reared back. Mickey matched each of his movements, reacting quickly to each one, staying ahead of him the whole time to maintain his power.  The beast bucked wildly, kicking his back legs up high, as his front hooves landed hard on the loose dirt below.

This continued for the next several moments until the horn finally sounded just as Outlaw swung his body around one way and Mickey went flying off from him the other way and hit the dirt hard on his back.  Before Mickey even had time to react, the bull fighters were there, three of them total, working to distract Outlaw, surrounding the bull and guiding him to the gate and out of the arena. 

Mickey darted to the fence and climbed up out of harm’s way as his adrenaline waned just enough for him to finally, for the first time that night, register the crowd’s boisterous cheering and feet stomping in the stands.  He raised his hands up in victory, the audience celebrating right along with him. 

Mickey let out a couple loud yelps as the announcer sang his praises from atop his horse on the other end of the arena.  “That was Mickey Milkovich from Normal, Illinois ladies and gentleman.  How did you all like that fantastic ride?!”

More, and even louder cheering from the crowd ensued.  Mickey, still breathing hard from exertion, cast his eyes on the large video screen high above them across the arena as a giant “87” appeared.

“Eighty seven points, ladies and gentleman! Give Mickey a big round of applause!” The crowd erupted again as Mickey jumped down and waved to them as he picked up his hat which had flown off of his head at some point during the ride, placed it back on his head, and made his way out of the arena. 

The excitement and exhilaration was still coursing through him as he walked back toward the chutes.  That was until he glanced up and saw a man standing a few feet in front of him with a microphone in his hand and a guy standing beside him holding a video camera.  Shit.  The reporter was wearing a blue suit with a purple tie with blue stripes and he stuck out like a fucking sore thumb.  At least the cameraman had the decency to wear jeans and a button down shirt.

This was one of the parts of bull riding that he hated.   He hated people anyway, couldn’t stand to be around them for very long, and the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was to be accosted by a fucking reporter who wanted him to talk about himself.

“Mickey, so how did you feel about your ride on Outlaw tonight?” the reporter asked as the light from the cameraman’s equipment shone right in his face, pissing him off even more. Then in the next instant, the reporter’s microphone was being shoved in his face.

“That shit was brutal, man,” Mickey answered. “Outlaw is big and strong.  But he’s got brains to go with it, you know? He’s a tough son of a bitch.”

The reporter blinked, dumbfounded, obviously shocked at Mickey’s choice of words.  This guy clearly had never interviewed Mickey before.  Mickey said what was on his mind, he didn’t give a shit what people thought.  He stuttered for a couple more seconds as Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, waiting for the asshole’s next question. “Uh, uh…..well, you’ve obviously started the season off to a great start.  Let’s talk about the PBR World Finals in November.  If you win, you will become the youngest bull rider to ever earn that title.  Everybody’s saying that you’re the one to beat. How do you feel about your chances?”

Mickey scratched his thumbnail along his sweaty brow as he thought of an answer.  Hell, Mickey had been dreaming of winning the World Finals ever since he first mounted a bull.  It was every bull rider’s dream, the Super Bowl of bull riding.  Mickey wanted it so bad he could taste it.  And he didn’t even care about the money, even though it sure as hell wouldn’t hurt. The winner could potentially receive over a million dollars in prize money. But that shit really didn’t matter to him. He just wanted to be known as the best bull rider in the world.

“Who the hell knows, man?” Mickey scoffed. “I’m just going to work my ass off.  It all comes down to who is better at their job at the time, you know?”

Dealing with this shithead along with the receding adrenaline in his body, Mickey was in a pissy mood and itching for a smoke.  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pack of Marlboros, grabbed a cigarette and his lighter out of his jeans pocket, lit it up and took a long, satisfying drag that instantly calmed his nerves.  He blew the smoke directly in front of him, right into the guy's face. 

The interviewer bristled and started swatting the smoke out of his face, dramatically coughing and sputtering.  Fucking pussy. “So, your theme song is Bad to the Bone." Mickey nodded in agreement.  "Well, are you?”

With his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and without missing a beat, Mickey quipped, “Depends on what day it is.”

“Uh, th-thank you, Mickey," the interviewer muttered. 

And with that, the interview was over. Mickey nodded and strode off confidently, glad to be done with that shit.  Mickey went back behind the chutes to grab his gear to bring it to the locker room with him. But before he did, he saw that Duff was up to ride. Kyle McDuffy had been Mickey’s best friend since high school, seeing as he was one of only a handful of people that Mickey could stand being around for any length of time.  After high school, they had rodeoed together, traveling all across the country, using what little money they had saved for entry fees.

Duff was a year older than Mickey, but Mickey had grown up hard and had to grow up fast, so he was always the more mature of the two.  Duff was this happy go lucky, always up for a party type of guy.  He didn’t take life too seriously, but Mickey was serious enough for the both of them. Mickey looked at bull riding as a job, and if he didn’t get a good ride, he wasn’t doing his job.

Duff was a damn good bull rider, or he wouldn’t be here, but he liked the show business part of it more so than the bull riding. He was the polar opposite of Mickey, which is probably why they were such good friends.  He loved meeting new people, talking to them.  Mickey had had more success as a bull rider, winning Rookie of the Year at the PBR World Finals two years ago and a handful of other accolades along the way. But Duff had a much larger fan base. He loved doing publicity, sponsorship commercials, radio spots, all that shit.  He even had a Facebook, Instagram and Twitter page.  Hell, all Mickey knew about tweets was it was the sound a bird makes. Mickey hated that part of it, the business side of it. He did it because he had to, Duff did it because he loved it.  Mickey just wanted to ride bulls.

Mickey walked over to the fence and climbed up to watch Duff’s ride.  “Come on, Duff, you lanky son of a bitch. Pull it out,” Mickey mumbled to himself. But not even three seconds into his ride, he was thrown off, crashing hard on his hands and knees. “Goddammit,” Mickey muttered.

Lance Weston and a couple of the PBR bull riders were on the fence beside Mickey and clearly hadn’t seen him climb up.  “I knew his ass wasn’t going to cover. What a goddamn waste of a pair of Wranglers,” Lance said derisively. The other riders nodded in agreement.

“What the fuck did you just say, Weston?” All three men turned to see Mickey staring daggers at Lance. They all knew that Mickey and Duff were tight, and judging by the looks on their faces, they knew they had fucked up.

“Just shooting the shit, Mick. Ain’t meaning no harm, man,” Lance responded as he put his hands up in surrender.

Lance Weston was a mouthy, cocky son of a bitch. If Lance was half as good as he thought he was, he might actually be a match for Mickey in the arena.  But he wasn’t. Not by a long shot.  And certainly not enough to be insulting Duff.  Nobody was going to talk shit about his best friend in Mickey’s presence.  Especially not that prick.

“Well, the only shit you’re going to be shooting is the bullshit at the end of my boot when I stick it so far up your ass it’s going to shoot right out of your fucking mouth!”

“Sorry, Mick. “Good ride, tonight,” Mickey heard the other bull riders mutter as they jumped down and walked off quickly.  Lance just shook his head and scoffed, his eyes not reaching Mickey’s, who was still staring him down, silently challenging. Mickey watched with satisfaction as Lance finally jumped down from the fence and made his way over to the other riders.

Mickey sighed heavily and turned to see Duff make his way out of the arena, thankfully uninjured, but not before waving his hat in the air with a big grin on his face.  The guy was unbelievable.  Only Duff could fall flat on his ass right out of the gate and still stand up and face the crowd, with a cheeky smile no less. But he guessed that was all part of Duff’s charm, and why people loved him so much.  He was so goddamn happy all the time. 

The times Mickey had been thrown off, he got pissed beyond belief, cussing a blue streak, throwing his rope across the locker room and kicking the first thing he came in contact with, plus the second and third things.  He got mad mostly at himself because he felt like he hadn’t tried hard enough. 

But Duff wasn’t like that. That’s why it especially irked him when assholes like Lance Weston ran his mouth.  Duff was the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet and never hurt a fly.  It beat all Mickey had ever seen, but Duff was as good as they came.

      _______________________

Mickey never did like having his picture taken.  He didn’t like taking pictures either. He grew up on a cattle ranch, what the hell was he going to take a picture of? A cow taking a shit? But here he was, sitting at a table right beside his best friend, looking out at a long line of fans waiting to take a picture with him, maybe get an autograph.  They were herded to the tables like cattle by PBR officials, enthusiastic fans already waiting.  They didn’t even get a chance to talk to each other after their rides.

As usual, Duff’s line was almost twice as long as his, which suited Mickey just fine.  The sooner he got done with this shit the better. He glanced over at his best friend as he stood up to take a picture with a couple of young girls.  He was laughing and joking with them, having the best time.  What a goofy motherfucker.  Mickey just shook his head and brought his attention back to his line.

The next people in line were a young man and woman with a kid, a boy, who looked to be about five years old. The kid was cute with his jeans, cowboy boots and hat on, smiling big with a Kool aid stained mouth. Mickey smiled at him.  After all, he wasn’t a completely heartless asshole.

“Hey, buddy, what’s your name?” Mickey asked.

“Cody,” he answered shyly. He looked to what Mickey assumed were his parents for reassurance.

“Go ahead, son.  Give him your hat,” the mom encouraged.

The little boy took his hat off his head and handed it over awkwardly. “Can you sign this, mister?”

“Sure,” Mickey answered.  “But you can call me, Mickey, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” the child beamed. Mickey raised his eyebrows at him, silently encouraging him to use his name instead. “Uh, I mean, Mickey.”

Mickey signed the brim of his hat with the marker in his hand and gave it back to him.  The mom and dad waved to him in thanks as Cody showed them his hat excitedly. Mickey couldn’t help but grin at the little guy.  He wished he would’ve had that when he was that age, a mom and dad to take him places, spend time with him.  That was one lucky kid. Before a reluctant wave of sadness could wash over him, Mickey shook those unwanted thoughts from his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey caught Duff looking at him.  When he turned to him, Duff had a big smirk on his face.  Mickey mouthed a ‘fuck you’ to him and when Duff stuck his tongue out at him, Mickey just shook his head and turned his attention back to his fans as the next people in line stepped up.

It was a young couple, and Mickey noticed they already had their phones out with their camera apps open. Fuck. 

         __________________

Mickey ended up placing first in the standings for the night, but they still had Saturday to compete, with the championship round on Sunday which would determine who won this event in New York.  The PBR was divided into different tours, depending on the rider’s level of skill and experience.  Mickey’s tour, Unleash The Beast, was the best of the best.  He and Duff had worked their way up through the different tours, this year being their first with Unleash The Beast.  This was all the more incentive for Mickey to prove himself.  He  competing against guys who had been in this league for a lot of years. In his mind, he had his work cut out for him.

However, Mickey was pretty damn happy with how his season was starting out.  He usually judged his season on how his first ride went, and, judging by this one, it would most likely be a damn good one. That was if he didn’t get his ass injured, which was unpredictable in the crazy world of bull riding. 

But Mickey didn’t let himself worry about that shit.  He liked to shoot from the hip with everything pertaining to bull riding.  That attitude had served him well the over the years, so he didn’t see any use in changing the way he did things now.

Mickey was in the locker room, gathering his things out of his locker and putting them in his camouflage duffel bag.  Some of the other riders were wandering around, and occasionally one would come up to him and give him a silent, congratulatory slap on the back.

Mickey’s phone buzzed in the back pocket of his Wranglers.  When he pulled it out and saw who the caller was, he smiled fondly as he answered.

“Hey, Pops” Mickey answered.

“Mickey! Damn, son, 87 points? On your first ride of the season?!” His fond smile spread into a wide grin at the familiar sound of his uncle’s voice. 

“Why are you still up, old man? It’s past ten o’clock there.” Mickey heard Uncle Ronnie’s grunt even through the phone. 

“Shit, there was no way in hell I was going to miss my son’s first ride of the PBR season.  Are you out of your fool mind?”

Mickey still melted a little every time he heard his uncle call him his “son.” Mickey was a tough as nails hard ass cowboy ninety nine percent of the time, but all it took was that one word from this man to turn him soft, every time.

Ever since Mickey was fourteen years old, he had lived with his Uncle Ronnie on his cattle ranch in Normal.  And one day, when the vet came to check on one of Ronnie’s prized calves that was sick, Ronnie introduced Mickey as his son and just never stopped, much to Mickey’s shock, especially considering what an absolute asshole he had been in the beginning. So in turn, Mickey called him Pops, considering Ronnie was the only real dad he had ever known.  Before Mickey could dwell too much on that train of thought, he turned his attention back to the man on the other end of the line.

“So I take it you saw the live stream, huh?” Mickey chuckled.

Ronnie laughed lightly. “Hell, yeah, I fired up the old iPad and watched you kick that black bastard’s ass.”

Ronnie was getting older in age, in his early sixties by now, but he was still very tech savvy, which amazed Mickey.  It shouldn’t, though, considering, Uncle Ronnie ran one of the most successful cattle ranches in Illinois and, inspired by Mickey’s success in bull riding, began a side business of breeding bucking bulls, which had become even more successful.  As tech savvy as Ronnie was, his business savvy was even more impressive. 

“Outlaw was a tough old son of a bitch, wasn’t he?”

“Fuck yeah, he was. But I showed him who’s boss,” Mickey teased.

“You sure as hell did, son.  I’m so proud of you.”

 “Thanks, Pops.” Damn he loved that man.  He loved when Ronnie called him when he was on tour, but hearing his voice just made him miss home that much more.

As if his uncle was reading his thoughts, he asked, "So how's The Big Apple?"

Mickey groaned loudly. "It's a big pain in my ass, is how it is."

Mickey heard Uncle Ronnie click his tongue and tsk. "Well, son, you're in the big leagues now, gotta go where the big money is."

"Aw, hell, Pops. You know I never cared about that shit," Mickey disagreed.

"Yeah, sure," Ronnie scoffed. "And men go to a Dolly Parton concert just to look at her cute ankles."

Mickey laughed at Ronnie's comparison. He was such a corny old hoot who had a huge crush on the star, and used her in conversation any chance he got. He even named one of his cattle after her. These thoughts were definitely not helping his homesickness.

Just then Duff walked into the locker room and went straight for Mickey, his excitement for his friend evident on his face. Mickey held up his finger in a ‘wait a minute’ gesture. 

“Listen, I gotta get going," Ronnie said with a sigh. Mickey loved talking to the old man but was silently thankful for the fact that Ronnie didn't like talking on the phone any more than Mickey did. "Ya’ll be careful out there, son, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Ok, Pops.”

Duff’s face lit up in recognition.  “Hey, Pops!” Duff yelled as he craned his neck toward the phone.  Mickey playfully rolled his eyes as he pressed the speakerphone button on his cell phone. “What you think about our boy tonight?” Duff wrapped his arm around Mickey’s neck, knocking his hat off his head in the process, much to Mickey’s chagrin.

“He kicked Outlaw’s ass, for sure. Sorry about your ride, Duff.  You’ll get ‘em next time, yeah?”

“Definitely, Pops.”

“Hey, Duff?”

“Yes sir?”

“Take care of my son, alright?”

“You know it, Pops.” Duff squeezed his arm tighter around Mickey’s neck, causing Mickey to elbow him hard in the stomach. “Ow, prick.”

“Excuse me?” Ronnie snapped.

“No, not you, sir.” Mickey smirked at Duff who had gone red with embarrassment.

“Good night, boys.”

“Good night, Pops,” they both replied.

As soon as Mickey hung up the call, Duff was engulfing him in an all-consuming hug. “Mickey! Eighty seven points! You lucky son of a bitch!” Duff slapped him on the back before pulling away from him.

“Lucky, hell. That’s what you call talent, asshole.”

“Yeah, well, you’re bringing you and your _talent_ with us tonight.  We’re all heading to the Patriot and your ass is coming too.”

“No, hell, I ain’t.  I’m taking my ass back to the hotel to sleep.” Mickey and Duff had taken turns driving the thirteen hours it took to get to New York from Normal, since Mickey didn’t like to fly unless he absolutely had to.  It was expensive, and there were too many damn people. He was tired, hungry, and ready to crash.

“Come on, Mick, please?” Duff cajoled, giving him that look that he knew would melt Mickey’s defenses.  He really hated the prick sometimes.  Besides his uncle, Duff was the only other person Mickey could never say ‘no’ to.  Everybody else could fuck right off.

“Fuck, fine,” Mickey relented. “But you’re buying my beer, bitch.”

Duff slapped him on the shoulder. “You got it, Mick. But first, you need to take a shower.  You reek, dude,” Duff teased, holding his nose in mock disgust.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Mickey agreed. “I guess you weren’t even on the bull long enough to get dirty, huh?” Mickey smirked at him as he watched in amusement as Duff’s mouth opened in shock.

“Ooh, that was cold, Mick.  Just cold.” Duff wrapped his arm around Mickey’s neck again and led him away from the locker room. “Come on, jackass, let’s go hit the showers.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PBR-Professional Bull Riders, Inc. An international professional bull riding organization based in Pueblo, CO  
> Rank bull- bull that has moves or kicks or speeds that are outside the norm of bucking bulls  
> Cover-to stay on a bull for the full 8 seconds required to achieve a qualified ride  
> Flank man-man that ties the flank strap (rope that is tied around the bull's flank) in the chute before a ride  
> Rosin-rubbing the rope to make it sticky to help prevent the bull rider's hand from popping out of the bull rope's handle during the ride, possibly causing a disqualification.  
> Rope guy-man who pulls the bull rider's rope tight before he wraps it around his hand before a ride


	2. King of Broken Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey meets Ian Gallagher, the new bull fighter on the PBR circuit, only not under the best circumstances.....

The angry New York winter wind whipped around them, matching Mickey’s mood as he and Duff hurried down the sidewalk toward The Patriot, the frozen snow crunching under their boots. Mickey huddled deeper into his Ariat coat trying in vain to fight against the chills that wracked his body.  Hell, Mickey even had a scarf tied around his neck which made him feel like a pussy, but he was too damn cold to care.

Mickey fucking hated New York City.  Especially New York City in January.  It was too damn cold, but you would never know it by looking at the streets littered with people, knocking into Mickey and Duff haphazardly, with not even so much as a half-assed apology, souring his mood even further.

“I can’t believe I fucking let you talk me into this, man,” Mickey groused, his breath forming a cloud of smoke in front of him.

The thought of knowing he could currently be lying in his warm hotel room bed jacking off to some porn movie he ordered did not help to improve his mood at all.

“Would you relax, Mick? You’ll be thanking me later when you take some girl back to your hotel room and get the real thing instead of rubbing one out to some godawful porn flick.”

Mickey shot him a bewildered look, but Duff just cocked his eyebrows and fixed him with a knowing smirk. How the fuck did he do that? If there were disadvantages to having a best friend like Duff, that was definitely one of them. He knew Mickey too damn well.  Regardless, he couldn’t deny that the prospect of getting some action did sweeten the pot a little bit. He still was fucking pissed though. 

Being on the PBR tour was hell on a relationship, that’s why Mickey and Duff chose not to be in one.  They traveled so much, that it would be too much of a hassle to have somebody back home waiting on them, constantly wondering what or who they were doing.  Who needed that shit? The cowboy lifestyle they lived consisted of driving, riding, drinking, and fucking, and they loved it and lived it to the fullest.

Some of the other bull riders had remarked before how life on the road as a single guy was lonely sometimes.  But hell, during the riding season, they were so busy in the whirlwind that was the PBR, that Mickey hardly noticed. And in the off season, he helped run his uncle’s ranch and Duff worked on his family’s ranch, the idea of not being in a relationship the furthest thing from their minds.

 Some of the guys in the circuit had wives and children, and somehow, they made it work.  That was all fine and well for them, but for Mickey and Duff, the last thing they wanted was to get tied down.  They were still young, they had plenty of time for that shit.

As Duff opened the door to the bar and motioned for Mickey to enter first, the commotion of the crowd tumbled out onto the street, making Mickey pause.  He really fucking hated people. But the warmth that spilled out with the noise was too inviting for Mickey to deny.  He shuffled in, with Duff right behind him, and relished in the heat that hit his goose bump-covered skin. They took off their coats and hung them on the rack by the door and made their way to the bar.

The Patriot was one of the few true country dive bars in New York City, and the one they usually visited when they were in town, that was if Duff was able to convince Mickey to join, which he usually was, the fucker. Even Mickey wasn’t immune to his charm, no matter how hard he tried to be.

The place held all of the usual staples found in a country bar.  There was an old run down jukebox in the far corner, blaring a George Strait tune (now there was a fucking cowboy), a couple pool tables in the middle of the floor, a bandstand on the other end of the bar with a dance floor the size of the beer-stained tables. The bartender was a big-breasted blonde in a two-sizes-too-small cut off t-shirt and an even tighter pair of cutoff jeans. It was rowdy, it was loud, and the perfect outlet for a bunch of bull riders to let off some steam.

Mickey didn’t do much hard partying, especially if he had to ride the next day. And especially at the beginning of the riding season.  It took him a couple weeks to get back in the swing of things, his body not acclimated yet to the long hours of driving or the havoc that the bulls wreak on his body every weekend. He rode bulls and did practice runs during the off season, of course.  He had to keep up his strength and balance.  But nothing compared to the craziness that was life on the PBR circuit.  Mickey was as tough as they came, but it would be an adjustment for just about anybody. Regardless, he fucking loved it and wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.

Mickey usually stuck to beer, instead saving the whiskey for off days when the possibility of being trampled by a 2,000 pound bull wasn’t weighing on his mind. Bull riders could bullshit with the best of them, but if any of them said that thought didn’t enter their mind when they entered the arena, even if only for a second, they were fucking lying.

Mickey usually knocked back a few beers, found him some chick willing to suck his dick, and then took her back to his hotel. The glamorous life of a bull rider.

Mickey glanced up from his stool at the bar as he took a swig of his beer, noticing with annoyance the numerous bras hanging from the old fashioned wooden light fixture above his head. What the fuck? He had been to this bar several times, and that’s the first time he had ever noticed that. Mickey just sighed and shook his head, turning to his friend and asking, “The fuck is that shit?”

Duff followed Mickey’s finger that pointed upward. He just started laughing and quipped, “It’s redneck interior decorating, Mick.” He slapped the bar top then slapped Mickey on the back, laughing too damn hard at his own joke before turning his beer up and taking a swig.

Mickey released an exasperated sigh as he rolled his eyes. “You know,” Mickey mused as he lit his cigarette and took his first satisfying pull from it, “if brains were dynamite, you wouldn’t even have enough to blow your fucking nose.”

“Fuck you, you know you love me,” Duff teased as Mickey shot him a baleful look.

Mickey darted his eye around nervously before punching out, “Would you not say that shit in here, fuckhead?”

“Jesus H. Christ, Mickey, would you lighten up?” Duff huffed. “Unless you’ve got a hole that a cowboy can stick his dick into, I guarantee you not a damn one of them gives a shit about anything we’re saying right now.”

Mickey’s eyes went wide, and a chill ran through his body that had nothing to do with the cold.  To Mickey’s relief, Duff didn’t catch his reaction, instead turning around on his bar stool.  “You gonna be okay by yourself, Mick?” Duff asked with a mischievous glint in his eye and a smirk to match.

Mickey shooed him away with his hand and a “Fuck off,” too lost in his own thoughts.  Too busy trying like hell not to let himself wonder why Duff’s words affected him so much.

Duff let out an amused cackle as he snatched his beer and dip can from the bar and jumped off his stool.  “I’ll be right back.”

“Ay, play some high octane shit,” Mickey called toward Duff as he turned in his seat.   “This ‘crying in my beer’ country shit is getting on my nerves.” Duff threw a middle finger over his shoulder as Mickey chuckled at him.  He had successfully distracted his mind while pissing his friend off at the same time.  It was a win-win in Mickey’s eyes.

Mickey found, to his surprise, that he didn’t hate country music.  It pretty much came with the territory like so many other things involved in this life. Duff absolutely loved it and would curse anybody up and down who spoke against it.  His favorite singer was George Strait, though, and if anyone were to say anything negative about him, they might just find their mouth full of rubber after he ran over them with his truck.

The kid was annoying as shit, but he was a damn good friend.  He was a friend to Mickey when that’s the last thing in the world he wanted.

As Duff was browsing through the music, Mickey noticed Lance Weston and his cowboy cronies standing around the pool table nearest to the jukebox. Some skank in a tight denim skirt and an even tighter sweater was hanging on to Lance’s arm and every bullshit word he said.  Mickey watched carefully as Lance turned his head when one of his buddies brought his attention to Duff next to him.

“Hey, Duff,” Weston slurred as he chalked up the end of his pool stick.

Duff turned when he heard his name and responded with a smile and a nod. “Hey, Lance, how’s it going?”

Weston grabbed the pool stick with both hands and started swaying it back and forth slowly and rolling it between his hands, clearly not interested in playing anymore. Mickey sat up straighter in anticipation, placing his beer bottle on the bar behind him, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.

“Oh, it’s going good for me, Duff.  Real fucking good.” Weston paused to pick up his beer and take a swig, wiping his mouth messily on the sleeve of his shirt. Duff continued to peruse the jukebox, seemingly unaffected by Weston’s sudden attention. “Too bad for you though, huh? Landing on your hands and knees right out the gate.” He looked toward his buddies with an evil smirk before turning back to Duff. “But, from what I hear that’s your favorite position anyway, so I’m sure you didn’t mind too much….”

Mickey was hit with a red-hot anger that flowed through his body like burning lava. He heard Weston’s friends laughing but all he saw was Weston.  He didn’t even notice Duff’s shocked expression as he jumped off his bar stool and stomped his boots across the floor toward his target.  He was laser-focused, Weston the only thing in his line of sight.   Just like when he’s preparing to ride, the bull, his enemy, the only thing he was focused on.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had snatched Lance’s pool stick from his hands roughly and broke it in half over his knee, knocked him to the floor, straddled his waist and just started punching. His fist made contact with Lance’s face over and over until Mickey could hear the crunch of bone and see the blood pouring from the wounds he inflicted.  Lance shot his fist up and connected it with Mickey’s lip. “Get off me, you motherfucker!” Lance roared as Mickey’s head snapped backward from the force.

Lance tried to land more shots to Mickey’s face but he blocked each one, his anger spurring him on. Mickey didn’t know why he had such a visceral reaction to Lance’s words, or why he was this angry over some no talent, big mouthed bull rider. But he couldn’t stop.  He just kept hitting, and hitting, like something inside of him snapped but he didn’t know what, or why.  Didn’t want to consider the reasons, just wanted the fucker to pay for running his goddamn mouth.

Maybe he was defending his best friend. At least that’s what Mickey told himself, what he wanted to believe. But deep down he knew there was a more profound reason, a deeper meaning behind his uncontrollable rage.  But everything in him was fighting against those thoughts, those memories, that part of his life that was not and had not been any part of him since he was fourteen years old. The words Weston had said stirred something in Mickey that had long since been buried, and he wasn’t planning on a resurrection any time soon.

Mickey continued delivering blow after blow to Lance’s now bloodied and beaten face, with guys all around him yelling and cursing, some encouraging, some screaming at him to stop, but no one intervened.  That was until his fist came up to hammer down yet another punch, when suddenly two large hands wrapped around his upper arms and pulled him up and away from Weston’s pitiful form.  Mickey’s boots slipped on some of the blood that Weston had shed as whoever was holding him continued to pull him back.

“Get the fuck off of me, asshole!” Mickey yelled, pulling his arms to try to wrestle himself out of the man’s hold, but it was no use. The guy was strong as an ox.

“Alright, cowboy, just calm down,” a calm, smooth voice placated. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” Mickey bellowed even louder as he noticed the crowd of cowboys dissipate and Weston stumble to the bathroom holding his nose with his hand. Next thing he knew, Duff was in his face, his brow furrowed with worry. The jukebox continued to blare inconspicuously in the background.

“Are you okay, Mickey? What the fuck was that, man? You beat that asshole to a pulp.” Duff reached down to pick up Mickey’s Stetson that had flown off his head during the scuffle.

“I’m tired of that fucking prick running his goddamn mouth,” Mickey sputtered as his chest heaved and his breath came in short bursts as he tried to regain his composure.

“Why are you paying any mind to his stupid ass anyway? God, I’ve never seen you like that, Mick.  You were like a damn caged animal that had just been let loose or some shit.  You sure you’re okay?” Duff squeezed his shoulder companionably as he searched his eyes.

“Yes, fuck.  I’m fine,” Mickey snapped as he reflexively knocked Duff’s hand off his shoulder. “Would you fucking let go of me now?” He shot back behind him.

“So, we’re good here?” The man behind Mickey asked. 

“Yeah, Ian.  We’re fine.  Thanks a lot,” Duff answered. The man released Mickey finally, but not before squeezing his biceps firmly. What the hell?

Ian? Who the fuck was Ian? The bar was packed with pretty much only bull riders and the women who wanted to fuck them, and Mickey knew everybody, but he didn’t remember any Ian.  Of course, Duff would know him since he never met a fucking stranger.

When he turned around to face the man who had saved Weston from being beaten within an inch of his life, Mickey fixed a scowl on his face.

“Who is this Howdy Doody looking motherfucker?” His question was directed at Duff as he looked the man up and down skeptically, taking in his red hair, pale skin, and green eyes. He wore Ariat jeans, a pink Ariat button down shirt, and Roper boots.  Mickey would never be caught dead wearing a pink shirt. He looked shitty in pink.  And besides, what self-respecting man would wear pink anyway?

He was so fucking tall that Mickey had to crane his neck to look at him. He had a good six inches on Mickey in height.  

“Ian, this is Mickey Milkovich.” Duff introduced, placing a hand on Mickey’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to knock it off this time as he waited impatiently for Duff to tell him who the fucker was standing in front of him. “Mickey, this is Ian Gallagher, the new bullfighter on the circuit.  He’s Cecil’s replacement after he retired last year.”

Mickey’s mind flashed back to the memory of Duff dragging him to Cecil’s damn retirement party.  Mickey had a hell of a lot of respect for Cecil, who had been a bullfighter for over twenty years and had saved Mickey’s ass on numerous occasions, but that didn’t mean he had any desire to be social, even for Cecil’s benefit. But like always, Duff had talked him into going anyway.

Shit. Cecil had been one hell of a bullfighter and Mickey just realized with Duff’s words how much he was going to miss the old coot. Bull fighters were some of the toughest sons of bitches around, and just like with bull riders, the bull was the enemy and their main job was to protect the bull rider from said enemy. They got injured by bulls just about as often as the men who rode those bulls. 

The job of a bull fighter wasn’t for the faint of heart, and as Mickey observed the gangly motherfucker in front of him who had extended his hand for him to shake, Mickey deduced that he wasn’t going to last as a bull fighter long enough to even make it worth the effort of the introduction. He just stared at the guy’s hand blankly before glancing up and finding Ian watching him expectantly with raised eyebrows.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mickey,” Ian prompted as a wide grin spread over his face.  Mickey had the sudden urge to knock the grin right off of his stupid, freckled face.

Mickey grunted and looked to Duff who shot Mickey an annoyed look and motioned with his hands for Mickey to return the gesture. Grudgingly, Mickey did and immediately assessed that there was no way this guy had done any hard farm or ranch work, his hands were way too smooth.  How the fuck did he ever become a bull fighter then? Bull fighters were badass motherfuckers, and there were words that came to mind to describe the man in front of him, but badass wasn’t one of them. The term “pretty boy” suddenly came to mind, followed immediately by Mickey wondering idly why the fuck he even cared.

Mickey’s thoughts were interrupted by a searing pain shooting through his hand.  Mickey winced in pain, hissing through his teeth, causing Ian to pull his hand back quickly, like he’d been shocked. “Hey, are you okay?”

Ian reached out and carefully took Mickey’s hand in his, examining it and turning it over palm down on top of his as Duff looked on, worried expression once again overtaking his features. There were cuts on each knuckle, with blood running down to his wrist.  “Shit, Mickey, that looks bad,” Duff observed.

  “Shit, this ain’t nothing, man,” Mickey assured. “I’ve seen a guy take a bull hoof to his junk and live to tell about it.” Ian and Duff both winced at that nasty image, instinctively putting a protective hand over their crotches. “I can handle a few scuffs on my knuckles.” Ian brought both his hands back to Mickey’s injured one and proceeded to bend his fingers slowly back and forth. Mickey swallowed down the grunt that wanted to escape at the pain that pulsed through his knuckles.  “Would you let go of my fucking hand? It’s fine.” Ian released his hand like he had been burned and backed away from the irritable cowboy.

“Okay, two things,” Ian began as he snatched his beer off the table beside him and took a swig, hooking his thumb into the front pocket of his jeans. “You can move your fingers, so it’s not broken, so that’s good.”

“What’s the second thing?” Duff asked as Mickey rolled his eyes.  He didn’t need this fucker telling him his hand wasn’t broken.  He had been injured enough riding bulls to know when something was broken.

“The other thing is that I’m just glad you were smart enough not to use your riding hand,” Ian answered.

Mickey shot daggers at Duff who was laughing at Ian’s observation, then turned his attention back to the redhead. “How the fuck do you know that’s not my riding hand, smartass?”

“It’s easy. You punched with your right hand, meaning that you’re most likely right-handed,” he stated, pointing with his beer bottle. “Which means your left is your riding hand. Plus it’s my job to be observant in the arena.”

Mickey scoffed angrily and rolled his eyes. Who did this fucking guy think he was? He didn’t know Mickey and Mickey sure as hell didn’t know him, and he really didn’t like the fact that the asshole noticed that much about him.  That shit wasn’t normal. He didn’t give a shit if it was his “job” or not. Suddenly, as if the guy could read his thoughts and made it his sole mission to piss Mickey off even more, he pointed at his hands again with his beer and said, “Nice tattoos, cowboy.”

Mickey instinctively glanced down, scanning over his bloodied knuckles even though he didn’t have to look to know what was there. Usually when people saw Mickey’s knuckle tattoos, they would balk and look at him with derision.  A lot of bull riders had tattoos, but none of them had FUCK-U-UP tattooed across their knuckles. He caught hell for them at first from other bull riders, but now they were a part of him, all a part of his image, even though when he initially got the tattoos, he was ensnared in another life, a whole other world, one that he was no longer a part of and never wanted to ever be again.

“Fuck you,” Mickey snapped, suddenly feeling trapped like the caged animal Duff mentioned earlier, pacing back and forth while darting his eyes around the room and feeling the bullfighter following him with his own, causing an uneasiness to settle in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, Ian. Mickey’s just being his usual charming self,” Duff said contritely, knocking his elbow into Mickey’s arm as he passed in front of him.

Mickey stopped his pacing to turn on his friend. “Kiss my ass, Duff.  Don’t fucking apologize for me!”

Duff put his face close to Mickey’s ear, whispering through gritted teeth. “You might not want to piss off the guy whose job it is to save your ass from being mauled by a raging bull, you dipshit!”

“This asshole? Seriously?” Mickey scanned his uninjured hand up and down in Ian’s direction.  “This guy couldn’t save a drowning man in three fucking feet of water!”

“Hey, man, it’s no problem, really” Ian reassured, holding up his hands in mock surrender and chuckling faintly.  Mickey felt Ian’s eyes as they bore into him, his lip tugged up on one side in a cocky smirk. This guy had to be the most easygoing prick he had ever met. Definitely not the right temperament for a bullfighter. He seemed completely unaffected by Mickey’s wrath, which in turn pissed him off even more.  He broke Mickey from his thoughts by asking,“Look, cowboy, why don’t you let me ask the bartender if they have a first aid kit behind the bar?”

“I told you it’s fine,” Mickey muttered, his voice sounding small, like he could barely get enough air to push the words out.

“Come on, tough guy, let me fix you up,” Ian continued, unperturbed. “At least let me buy you a drink.”

“Look, _Gallagher_.” Mickey had finally had enough of this cocky son of a bitch and wanted to tell him exactly where the fuck he could go. “You’re our new bullfighter, right?” Ian nodded and took another sip of his beer.  “Let me give you some words of advice, okay? Your job is to protect me out on the dirt, and only the dirt.  You got that? So, otherwise, I suggest that you mind your own fucking business and leave me the fuck alone!” He turned around to face Duff who was about to say something until he noticed Mickey’s exasperated expression.  “And give me my fucking hat!”

He snatched his hat from Duff’s hands and plopped it angrily back on his head before turning and stepping around the lanky bastard in his way and stalked over to the bar.

Mickey felt two pairs of eyes on him as he reached the bar and ordered a shot of Jim Beam. He had a feeling he was going to need it.  When the bartender placed the shot glass in front of him, he downed the amber liquid faster than a flea jumped off a dog’s ass, but not before he heard Duff offer to buy Ian a drink at the bar as they made their way over to him. Just fucking great.

“Another,” he barked as he slammed the glass back down on the bar top, deciding to forgo his self-imposed riding rules. If he was going to ride the next day, he was going to ride hung the fuck over.

_____________________________________________________

“I can’t believe you didn’t see him out there in the arena tonight, Mickey,” Duff snickered as Mickey raised his now bandaged hand to take his fourth shot of whiskey. Turned out Ian didn’t heed Mickey’s advice and insisted on wrapping his hand up from the first aid kit he got from the bartender.  But Mickey refused to let Ian buy him a drink, though.  That was taking shit just one damn step too far. He could buy his own god damn drinks, fuck you very much.

The whiskey burned so good going down his throat, each shot better than the last. Mickey was still reeling from his fight with Weston.  Incidentally, he looked over and saw him slumped in a corner, rag over his face to catch the blood from his nose. Mickey couldn’t help the pride that bloomed in his chest at the sight.  Fuck that prick and his pussy friends. 

Mickey and Duff were now engaged in a mostly two-sided conversation, with Mickey stewing in annoyance beside his friend and offering an occasional grunt in response when he was asked a question. He just wanted to drink his liquor and be left the fuck alone.  But of course, Duff couldn’t do that, pulling a grudging Mickey into the conversation.

“Hell, no I didn’t see him, Duff,” Mickey shot back. “I was a little busy riding two thousand pounds of burger that was hell bent on grounding me into the dirt, asshole.”

Both men beside him laughed, but it was Ian’s deep laugh he heard that caused a Mickey to see red. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? First, he butted into a fight he had no business getting involved in.  Weston deserved every damn punch Mickey delivered to his face and a fuck ton more. Second, Duff seemed to think he hung the fucking moon, talking nonstop to him since they came over to the bar.  Mickey suddenly wished he would’ve gone with his first instinct to stay his ass inside his hotel room for the night.

Ian peered around Duff to look at him and shake his head in amusement, as Mickey tipped back his shot glass to swallow down his whiskey.

Mickey saw in his peripheral vision that Ian’s mouth tugged into a grin on one side. He did that shit a lot Mickey had discovered, and it made him uncomfortable.  He just sat there as Duff rambled on, staring and smiling.  What the fuck was wrong with the guy? Mickey found himself glancing at the glass mirror reflecting the line of liquor bottles behind the bar, just to make sure he didn’t have something on his face. As much as the annoying fuck was staring, he was sure he had some bull shit on his nose or something.

He kept his eyes safely facing in front of him once he realized there was no offending blemish, focusing on the various bottles of liquor on display, silently wishing he could pour every one of them down his throat. A pair of eyes caught his in the mirror until Mickey realized after a few seconds that they had been inadvertently engaged in a standoff, staring each other down.  Mickey sent a silent message to the other man as he narrowed his eyes, hoping that his message for him to fuck right off was clearly relayed.  It must have been because he finally lowered his gaze and thankfully returned his attention back to Duff.

“You did a good job on Outlaw tonight, cowboy,” Ian praised unexpectedly, cutting Duff off in the middle of his rambling. The guy never knew when to shut the fuck up so Mickey was grateful to Ian for at least being able to achieve that impossible feat. And Duff didn’t even have the common decency to get pissed about being interrupted, he just grinned stupidly over at Mickey and waited for his reply.

Mickey grumbled incoherently while flicking his nose nervously with his knuckle. Why the fuck did the guy insist on calling him ‘cowboy’ anyway? He had a fucking name.  He had half a mind to remind the redhead of that but he decided against it, deciding instead to turn up his newly refilled shot glass.

While he drank down his sixth shot, he heard Duff speak up beside him. “That little grumbling noise he made? Yeah, that’s Mickey speak for “’thank you, Ian.  I appreciate that, buddy.’”

Mickey placed his shot glass down on the bar with force, signaling the bartender for yet another refill. “Fuck off, “McDuffy,” he sneered as he stared at the glass being filled to the rim again by the buxom bartender.

“Oh shit, he’s last namin’ me,” Duff teased. “Better watch out, Ian.  That means he’s really pissed off.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey warned. He wanted nothing more than to punch the smirk off Duff’s ugly face. He was damn lucky that Mickey’s punching hand was still stinging like a son of a bitch.

Duff laughed out loud at Mickey’s expense, because he was a total asshole like that, but Ian just cocked his eyebrows and continued to stare a hole into him. What the fuck?

“Well, he’s already called me Gallagher, so I’m fucked, I guess,” Ian shrugged. “I don’t know, though.  I don’t mind it.  I’ve definitely been called worse.”

Mickey chanced a glance in Ian’s direction but immediately regretted it because those damn green eyes were there, relentless in their pursuit to annoy the fuck out of him even more. He quickly averted his eyes to the Pabst Blue Ribbon clock on the wall behind the bar.

As Mickey took a drag off his Marlboro Red and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, he realized with annoyance that even his smokes weren’t doing anything to calm his frayed nerves. Duff continued to drone on, filling Ian in on life on the PBR circuit.  If Ian was listening, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it, his eyes focused intently on Mickey the whole time Duff spoke and the longer he stared, the more pissed off Mickey got. Quite frankly, he was being fucking rude to Duff, but Mickey wasn’t in the mood to get into it with him.  What the fuck ever.

“When we get to Chicago….” the mere mention of that place sent a chill up and down Mickey’s spine. Mickey drowned out Duff’s incessant babbling with yet another shot of whiskey, hoping the burn would kill the sudden chill he felt, a constant loop of memories running through his mind like an out of control herd of cattle.

Between his unwanted thoughts, Duff’s rambling, and Ian’s constant staring, it all became too much to bear.  He felt like the walls were slowly but steadily caving in on him. He needed to get the fuck out of there, and fast. “I’m out, Duff. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

Mickey didn’t even wait for any response and all but ignored Ian as he made his way across the bar to the curvy redheaded woman at the jukebox wearing jeans and a tight green sweater.  She held a beer bottle in her manicured hand as she searched the machine.

“Ay, wanna bang?” Mickey blurted as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.  Fucking finally, the whiskey swimming in his stomach was achieving its desired effect. Great fucking timing.

The redhead looked up from the jukebox, her eyes drinking him in. “Sure thing, cowboy,” she said as she put down her beer on a nearby table and grabbed her purse and coat. “Lead the way.”

________________________________________________

 Ian Gallagher’s head was spinning, and he knew it had nothing to do with the few beers he drank.  He knew exactly what it was-the force of nature that was Mickey Milkovich.  He was so fucking sexy, the perfect mix of understated confidence and brooding masculinity.  And he didn’t even know just how sexy he was, which of course made him even that much sexier.

Ian stared off into space, drinking his beer slowly, oblivious to the boisterous noise around him, so much so in fact that he didn’t even realize that Duff had left the bar and joined a group of bull riders across the room.

 Ian was lost in his own thoughts, wondering how good it would feel to run his hands through Mickey’s jet black hair or stare into those icy blue eyes as Mickey lay underneath him…….’Fuck!’ Ian muttered to himself. He needed to get a fucking grip. He ran a hand down his face to try to rid his mind of those racy images.  Mickey wasn’t even fucking gay.

Mickey was the epitome of the rough and tumble cowboy, but at the same time, he was so different.  Ian couldn’t quite explain it. He had this swagger about him, not to mention how those Wranglers hugged his ass and his front in all the right places. But it was more than just his looks, but that was reason enough to be hung up on the man.

 Just from the very few times he was able to get a look into Mickey’s eyes, he could sense that behind those eyes lay a million stories, and Ian wanted to know every damn one of them. Yep, he indisputably, unequivocally had a crush on Mickey Milkovich.

He knew it from the first moment he saw Mickey bust out of that chute with Outlaw.  Even the way he rode a bull was sexy, it was like he was one with the animal, like they were magnets-when the bull moved, he moved. Man and beast doing their own private dance together, so sleek and graceful.  As graceful as anybody could be on a two-thousand-pound mammoth.

When he rode a bull, the look on his face said that there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing more at that moment. Ian had been around bull riders for a few years now, and he had never seen in any of their eyes what he saw in Mickey’s when he rode. Pure, unadulterated passion.  And it was a complete turn on.

Never mind the fact that watching Mickey ride the bull conjured up images of him riding Ian into a mattress, but Ian quickly shook his head to rid his mind of those thoughts, pretty sure if he continued on with that line of thinking he would pop a boner right here in the middle of this sea of cowboy hats. 

Further proof that he was a goner came when he saw Mickey walk in with Duff, all grumpy and cold, furrowed brows and all.  Those eyebrows-goddamn, Mickey could hold full conversations with those things and never have to utter a word and get his point across abundantly clear.

He knew when he saw Mickey rush over to defend his friend and beat the shit out of that asshole Weston that he just had to find a way to talk to him, so he figured breaking up the fight was as good an opportunity as any, especially when nobody else bothered to do it, just standing there watching with their thumbs up their asses.

Weston’s reputation preceded him as a Texas oil tycoon’s son who got into bull riding just to piss off his old man who wanted his son to inherit the family business.  He didn’t give two shits about the sport of bull riding and certainly didn’t show it the respect that Mickey did.  Mickey’s reputation preceded him as well as an talented cowboy who was one of the best bull riders in the sport today, and also one of the meanest.

Ian knew that he could have broken up the fight between Weston and Mickey much sooner than he did but he had to admit he got some enjoyment out of watching that son of a bitch get what was coming to him.  In the end, he had been much more concerned about Mickey’s hand than Weston’s face. Those hands, fuck.  Just touching his injured hand sent a thrill up Ian’s spine as he imagined what those hands could do to him.

If Ian was crushing hard on Mickey before, seeing the tattoos on his knuckles pushed him right over the edge into obsessed territory. Even though his right hand was bloody from the fight, he could still make out what they said. They were badass, but Ian didn’t miss the brief flash of pain that crossed Mickey’s face as he examined them, and not physical pain. Yes, there was much more to Mickey Milkovich than met the eye. And Ian couldn’t wait to find out what that “more” was.

But he also knew how things worked in the PBR, and the rodeo world in general. There were gay cowboys, fuck knows Ian had hooked up with his share since he had first started out in bullfighting.  But it wasn’t ever out in the open, you had to keep that shit locked down.  Your livelihood, and your life, depended on it.

Cowboys didn’t take too kindly to their manhood being questioned and a queer cowboy would do just that.  It was more of the same Ian had experienced in the military.  Even though gays were no longer forced to lie about who they were, it’s still not something anyone advertised.  Sudden, unwanted memories of that life made his heart ache, almost as much as seeing Mickey leave with that trashy girl draped all over him.

Ian was internally kicking himself for the feelings he had.  He could not have had the hots for a straighter, ornerier fucker than Mickey Milkovich.  If Mickey had any idea about the thoughts that were running through Ian’s mind, he would surely castrate Ian himself and serve his balls as prairie oysters for dinner.

Ian had fucked plenty of tough as nails cowboys who were more than happy to bend over for him, but that’s all it ever was.  Just a quick fuck to release the tension, a means to an end.  Even if Mickey was gay, which was damn near impossible, there was no way in hell he took it.  He would be a gold star top, for sure.

Ian shook his head and looked down at his dirt-covered boots as his arms draped over the bar. What the fuck was wrong with him? Mickey had just left not ten minutes ago with a woman, a skanky woman, sure, but still, a woman.  Mickey wasn’t fucking gay.  Ian knew that like he knew his own damn name. These thoughts he was having were totally irrational and just plain fucking stupid.

“Hey, sugar, you look mighty lonely sitting here all by yourself.” Ian’s head shot up in surprise to see a beautiful blonde-haired woman with blue eyes and huge boobs sit down next to him. Ian groaned internally.  The last thing he needed was some desperate woman using some fake ass Southern accent to try and get his attention.  Any other guy in the place would be more than happy to have this woman flirting with them. She didn’t know just how much time she was wasting sitting here with him.

“No ma’am,” he drawled with faux sweetness. “Just finishing up my last beer and about to head back to my hotel.” He smiled at her friendly enough, but not too friendly to make her think she had a snowball’s chance in hell with him.

“Want some company?” She winked, actually _winked_ at him with long, black, fake eyelashes.  Was anything about this woman real? Is this what women felt they needed to do to get a man to notice them? Shit, he almost felt bad for shooting her down. Almost.

“Aww, no ma’am, I’m awfully tired. Just want to go crash, you know? Let me buy you a drink, though,” Ian offered as he nodded toward her empty glass sitting on the bar.

“Thanks, hun,” she slurred, her eyes a little droopy from her obvious inebriation. 

“What are you drinking?”

“Jim and Coke, baby.” The mention of the Jim Beam brought Ian’s mind back to Mickey.  He wondered idly if that was Mickey’s favorite drink. Did he prefer bourbon or whiskey? Did he like another brand better? Jesus, he had it bad. He just could not get the black-haired cowboy out of his head, not really sure if he even wanted to. 

“Bartender,” Ian called as she walked past, noticing out of the corner of his eye the woman looked him up and down like he was a tall drink of water and she had been stranded in the Sahara for days on end.

She slung her long, blonde hair over her shoulder with a flourish. “Another beer?”

“No, thanks, darlin’.  But give this beautiful lady anything she wants.  It’s on me.”

Ian tossed a wad of bills down on the bar, desperate to get away from this woman and her leering eyes. He tipped his hat and said a quick, “good night,” and turned and walked in the other direction.

 Ian made his way over to the other side of the room and leaned against the wall, putting one boot up against it while he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.  The whole place was nothing but one big cloud of smoke, but Ian’s thoughts were consumed of nothing but Mickey. The man was so mysterious, so guarded.  But Ian had a feeling if he was allowed to even scratch the surface, there would be so much more there.

 Ian made up his mind then, in the middle of that crowded bar that he was going to do anything and everything he could to get to know Mickey Milkovich, even if it was only as a friend. 

As he stood there and watched the guys fight good-naturedly over the pool game and listened to the cowboys use some of the worst pick-up lines Ian had ever heard with the female objects of their affection, he came up with a plan. It was risky and would probably make Mickey hate him even more than he seemed to already, but he had to do something.  But first, for his plan to work, he had to find Duff. With renewed enthusiasm, he stubbed his cigarette out hurriedly in the ashtray on the nearest table and went in search of Mickey’s friend.

**Author's Note:**

> PBR-Professional Bull Riders, Inc. An international professional bull riding organization based in Pueblo, CO  
> Rank bull- bull that has moves or kicks or speeds that are outside the norm of bucking bulls  
> Cover-to stay on a bull for the full 8 seconds required to achieve a qualified ride  
> Flank man-man that ties the flank strap (rope that is tied around the bull's flank) in the chute before a ride  
> Rosin-rubbing the rope to make it sticky to help prevent the bull rider's hand from popping out of the bull rope's handle during the ride, possibly causing a disqualification.  
> Rope guy-man who pulls the bull rider's rope tight before he wraps it around his hand before a ride


End file.
